


Know when to fold 'em

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Adultery, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gambling of a sort, Infidelity, Korean War, M/M, making bets for sexual favors, piercintyre - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: "Say, Trap," Hawkeye says, even as he draws a little circle around one of Trapper's pointed, brownish nipples, "what do you say we make a little bet?"
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Kudos: 16
Collections: Banned Banned Together Bingo 2020, Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Know when to fold 'em

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadesofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/gifts).



> Written for "gambling" on my [Banned Together Bingo card](https://bannedtogetherbingo2020.tumblr.com).
> 
> Title from Kenny Rogers's "The Gambler."

"Say, Trap," Hawkeye says, even as he draws a little circle around one of Trapper's pointed, brownish nipples, "what do you say we make a little bet?"

Trapper, who has been lying on the bunk with his eyes closed, weary and worn out, cracks an eyelid open to peer at Hawkeye, who stifles a sigh at the sight of the beautiful hazel eye. Trapper's eyes—much like the rest of him—are really unfairly beautiful, and without compare in the camp at large. In fact, his biceps, and his thighs, and his well-defined pecs… so many parts of Trapper are without compare, maybe to anyone Hawkeye's ever met. He draws a little heart this time, putting the little inverted point so that it touches the nipple, then spirals his finger back outward, tracing the areola.

"What kinda bet?" Trapper asks, his breathing still slow and even. But then, Hawkeye hasn't done much yet, beyond simple stimulation, and while Trapper's nipples are sensitive, he _is_ exhausted, so it's no surprise he might need a little bit… more… to completely get his motor running.

"Well, how about this: whoever comes first has to pay a penalty to the other person, and next time we do this, that person gets to pitch?" Hawkeye is trying not to show on his face how eager he is for Trapper to accept this; Trapper, usually inside Hawkeye at the time, is more likely to blow his load simply because of how "amazing" he says it feels to be inside him.

Hawkeye, on the other hand, doesn't have that privilege very often. If Trapper takes the bet—and loses, which he very well might, and probably will—then Hawkeye will get to be the pitcher for once, a thought he relishes since Trapper is almost exclusively the pitcher—he's said being catcher doesn't "suit" him. Hawkeye fights to keep his grin from appearing and spoiling the trap, even as his fingers begin to trip down Trapper's torso towards his flaccid cock—which is impressively large even quiescent, like it is now.

It's Trapper's own words that will haunt him later, because the word "suit" had put Hawkeye in mind of poker—and the idea to play their little sexual games for higher stakes. Not to mention it'd be nice if Trapper could hold out just a little longer sometimes; Hawkeye loves being fucked, the sensation of having his hole completely stuffed to the brim, but even though Trapper never lets him go unsatisfied, it feels unfair that he always gets to come first.

"Pay a penalty?" Trapper asks lazily, reaching up behind Hawkeye to sweep his palm over Hawkeye's nape, then tangle his fingers in Hawkeye's hair. Trapper has often remarked on how fine and soft his hair is, even though it's straight as a needle. The only waves in his hair are from the way he parts it—and Trapper loves to mess up his part while inside Hawkeye. "What kinda penalty?"

"Money, of course," Hawkeye says, now also trying to hide the avaricious gleam he knows wants to glint in his eye. "After all, it wouldn't be strip poker if there weren't money involved, would it?"

"We're not playin' strip poker, Hawk," Trapper points out, reclosing his eye. He breathes out in a long exhale, and down below, where Hawkeye's fingers are dancing lightly over his cock, he's beginning to stir. His cock is plumping up, blood-rich and gorgeous, and Hawkeye doesn't even wait: he wraps his fingers around the engorged shaft and brings it to his mouth—Trapper's so huge he barely has to slide down the cot at all to get his lips around it.

And it splits his lips so wide open that they swell and turn bright red in moments, a fact that he knows from past experience with blowjobs and subsequent mirrors. It even makes his jaw ache, though Hawkeye's no stranger to giving head to other men; Trapper's cock is both the biggest, and the most beautiful, out of all the others.

Now that his mouth is being put to better use—hopefully licentious use—Hawkeye can't verbally respond to Trapper's riposte, but that's okay because with any luck Hawkeye's superior skill at blowjobs will render a response unnecessary. That is to say, Trapper will explode into his mouth, lose the bet, and give Hawkeye a much-anticipated chance to do the penetrating next time—all good things, in Hawkeye's opinion.

But Hawkeye realizes the flaw in his plan when he hears a snore, the hand in his hair drops away, brushing his shoulder as it falls back to Trapper's chest, and his dick begins to soften; in the warm cavern of his mouth, where it should be impossible for Trapper to lose interest—Hawkeye has perfected his technique, starting with Tommy when he was a young teenager and culminating with the many instances of experimentation when he was in college and medical school—Trapper's cock is soon as limp as lettuce. How could Trapper have _fallen asleep?_

Hawkeye, being that he's also running low on scrip for the month, was hoping to kill two birds with one stone: chalk up better sexual experience, and fill his near-empty coffers with fresh blood, milked from Trapper just like he'd been planning on milking a decent orgasm out of him.

He lets Trapper fall from his mouth and says,

"Hey, Trap, wake up." He blows on the wet portions of Trapper's dick, trying to wake up other parts of him as well, but there's no reaction beyond more soft snores. "Fuck," Hawkeye mutters, getting to his feet, knees creaking. "He goes and falls asleep on me. That's definitely a forfeiture of the bet right there."

But as he's gently pulling up Trapper's army briefs and covering him with his blanket—they have to hide the evidence from Frank, of course—he realizes Trapper never actually _agreed_ to anything.

"Fuck!" He shimmies into his own army briefs and then his fatigues, yanking his t-shirt over his head, and stalking—quietly—over to his own cot, where he throws himself onto it facedown and tries to ignore the throb-throb-throb of a drumbeat that's taken up residence in his own dick, which is clamoring for fulfillment. He shifts on the bunk to try and get more comfortable and—shit. _That_ was a mistake. His cock thickens in his army briefs, just before it jerks against the cot, and he spends into his underwear—which were, admittedly, not that clean to begin with, but now have to be washed by hand—without anyone seeing—before he can send them out with the laundry.

Muffled into his pillow, excoriating himself for essentially losing a bet _he shouldn't have been able to lose_ , Hawkeye says, for a third time,

"Fuck."


End file.
